A Night of Madness
by littlexkiller
Summary: Whouffle Crime AU: Clara is a 24-year-old policewoman, and yes, she's damn good at her job if she does say so herself. Oswin was a smitten 17-year-old with sass and a boyfriend who was never completely open with her. But one night can change everything. Back then, John was just a cute boy in a bowtie. Now he is the Doctor, and he is the most wanted man in the world for his crimes.
1. Two Dead (A Smile)

_Chapter One: Two Dead (A Smile)_

_1558 words_

* * *

**Clara Oswald - Present**

"Doctor John Smith, you are hereby under arrest for the conviction of the following: three premeditated murders, an armed robbery, large-scale trafficking of the illegal drugs LSD and cannabis, serial murder, a mass murder, one case of grievous bodily harm, and a manslaughter charge to put the cherry on top. You've got quite the list there, sir."

He looked up at her from his position on the ground, green/gold eyes sparkling with vulnerability – then shock. He was so prepared to beg for mercy until he saw her face. Her devastatingly pretty, minimal makeup, heart shaped, _familiar_ face. "Wha... Oswin?" he asked, seemingly in a daze. She shook her head at him, lips pursed in what was almost pity. _Probably drugs in his system I'll have to test for later_, she thought drily. Clara went through the familiar process of the cuff and the key, and it didn't feel quite as satisfying as she imagined it would. Maybe she had done it too many times by that point.

"I don't think you'll be needing that," Clara said calmly, plucking the Doctor's state-of-the-art smartphone out of his handcuffed hands. After three years of on/off pursuing the most wanted man in the world, she'd caught him. Clara Oswald caught the serial murderer, occasional hit man and former drug dealer code named 'The Doctor'. And she wasn't even Senior Constable yet. The tall (or at least, in comparison to her), gangly, eccentrically dressed man groaned as Clara and her probationary apprentice Angie Maitland hauled him towards the police vehicle.

He flicked his hair out of his eyes and gave his best pout at Clara, who rolled her eyes at him and locked one of his cuffs to the railing in the still-undercover cruiser. The Doctor continued to hold his pout even as his facial muscles got sore, and she glared at him, noticing a strange look in his eyes. Almost like that of a plea for recognition. Like he wanted her to know who he was. Well _of course_ she knew. You tend to remember people when you spend years trying to get them locked up for their crimes.

"Oh, you think you can just charm the pants off of anyone, don't you? You're already under arrest for the conviction of numerous crimes, don't try that with me."

He sat back in defeat, hands curled in his lap performing the same nervous habit repetitively, running his left thumb over his right over and back again, over and back again, over and back again. The Doctor was plotting, and Clara was having none of it. "Sit still," she commanded sternly, and he threw his hands up in defeat as the cruiser pulled into the uncharacteristically nearby police station. _Typical reverse psychology rubbish_, she noted. _Go exactly where they won't expect you to, and stay there_. Although she had to admit – the man was clever. On the run from her for three years, from the law for nearly ten. He wasn't caught a single time. The only reason they even knew he was responsible was the mocking bowtie he left at every scene with a sheet of paper with some kind of swirly, circular code on it in invisible ink.

And then there was that psycho wife of his who got locked up for trying to kill the poor bastard. Professor Song, her code name was. Professor River Song. _She got put in the Stormie for that_, Clara recalled with satisfaction.

After an hour and a half of the typical confirmation-of-details procedure that she could never be bothered to remember the formal name for, they walked him to the interrogation room. It was a cruel, white-lit, archetypal interrogation room. Usually he would stay handcuffed to his chair while she paced around him with a menacing glare, but instead she took a seat in front of him and discretely unlocked his cuffs, staring him square in the pupils. "Do you remember me?" he burst, and immediately bit his lip at his impulsive question. Clara smiled and shook her head.

"Aside from the news reports and three-year face hunt, no. I can't say we've met before. I'm sorry."

She cursed herself silently. _Never apologise to a criminal_.

* * *

**Oswin - Three years ago**

The young couple of exactly a year stood by the relentless ocean, the murky grey water spraying and frolicking lazily between the entangled legs of the Doctor and Oswin. The scene looked like it was taken from a Nicholas Sparks novel, but the Doctor felt nowhere near as confident as Noah. "Do you like it?" he asked anxiously. Oswin shook her head knowingly. "What do you mean, do I like it? I _love _it!" she squealed, wrapping her arms around him tightly. The Doctor smiled into her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Yeah," he replied, voice gravelly and lowered to just above a whisper. "I thought you would."

She took advantage of the precious moment-in-the-making and, to his dismay, splashed his suit pants with the ocean water. He gawped at her in mock offence. "Oswin Oswald, you rascal! Come back here!" he cried in indignation. She tried to run, but he caught her around the waist from behind, earning him a squeal of laughter as the cold water sloshed around them. Her phone rang then – her mother insisting on her going home. The Doctor gave her one of his famous puppy eye pouts as she shoved her phone in her bag and made towards the car park, to which she rolled her eyes in response. "Come on then!" she chirped, hips swinging deliberately all the way to the shiny teal passenger door of his vintage 1970's Plymouth Hemi Cuda. "Oh, Soufflé Girl," he whispered to himself as he tugged open the beloved door, "you will be the end of me." She looked at him in confusion. "What?" she asked, but he shook his head. "Nothing," he replied smoothly, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips with a smile and driving away.

* * *

**Four years ago**

Seventeen-year-old Oswin never questioned the Doctor's dress sensibilities or his possessions. _His parents were probably well-off_, she reasoned. Were. One of the first conversations they'd had was in the women's section of the Gallifreyan Cemetery. She was standing by her mother's grave, tears rolling freely down her cheeks, but while she allowed herself that 'luxury', she did not sob or whimper. She chose to stand silent vigil there; hair wild and unkempt, in her favourite leather jacket and jeans, no makeup. It had been a year, and yet it still hurt like a fresh wound.

Oswin never thought anyone would be there on the same day, until a boy about her age strolled up to the grave neighbouring her mother's and laid a rose there casually. Almost... too casual. _Everyone grieves differently, Oswin_, she reminded herself sternly. _Don't be judgmental_. She couldn't help but notice how _relaxed_ he was. Like he expected that poor woman to die and was okay with it. Oswin secretly wondered if he had killer her himself. (Rose Tyler, she saw from the gravestone. _Ironic choice of flower_, she thought grimly).

Then he smiled at her. "Mother, sister or friend?" he asked knowingly, but not unkindly. She tried to smile back, but it came off as a grimace. "Mother," said Oswin, and mentally kicked herself for talking to a strange boy. She'd never stop now.

"You?"

He shifted his weight somewhat nervously. "Girlfriend," he told her, wincing after the second syllable. Oswin looked to the ground. _Poor guy_, she thought to herself. "Poor you," she whispered aloud, and immediately clapped a hand to her mouth. He raised an eyebrow in light amusement as she began to stutter her apology.

"I – I'm so sorry, I didn't mean that sarcastically, I completely meant it, um... Not that I'm taking pity on you, I mean I'm really not, not at all and I'm totally digging a hole for myself right now why can't the Earth just swallow me up too?"

The tall tweed-clad boy grinned at her, the sparkle in his green-gold eyes seeming out of place with his gloomy surroundings. "It's okay," he whispered back. "I'm John, by the way. John Smith, but my mates call me the Doctor. Just a little something that they came up with after something stupid we did," he continued, eyes never leaving her face. She gave him a little smile, and it surprised her how genuine it was.

"I'm Oswin, by the way. Oswin Oswald, my friends call me Oswin, because that _is_ my name. Shocking, I know."

His eyebrows shot up again, her humour and new confidence taking him by storm. The Doctor laughed a little.

"You're really something else, you know that Oswin? You're different."

"So said 'the Doctor'. Oh yes, I am very aware."

* * *

_**A/N: Bit of an awkward place to end, sorry. It was getting too long and I'd really hate to bore you all.**_


	2. Confess

**_A/N: Just to clear up the timeline of this story for anyone who may not have caught it: Clara was twenty-four when she caught the Doctor. Three years before that, the Doctor took Oswin to the beach as a twenty-one-year-old. Four years before that, they met in the cemetery. We'll switch to present tense at the end of the story._**

* * *

_Chapter Two: Confess_

_1696 words_

* * *

**Oswin**

Oswin was in a better disposition to create conversation off of that impression rather than her awkward, stumbling apology, so she did. They sat down on the bench in the park across the road and learned about one another. The more they learned, they more they wanted to learn about the other person. She liked English; he liked Science. She liked police siren red - he liked deep, deep, deep blue. The bluest blue she'd ever seen in her life. When her father called her home, she couldn't help but feel disappointed, even as she smiled at her new friend and said that it was a pleasure to have met him.

She waltzed into the house with her usual bright smile, making it her mission to cheer up her grumpy old man.

* * *

**Clara**

Clara would tell you herself that she had led a relatively nondescript life until she turned twenty-one. That was when she made the unprecedented move of enrolling in two years of training to become a police officer with the City of London Police. Yes, she did turn out to be one of two females out of how many hundred males that made it through to be an actual officer, but she didn't mind. They all discovered in their own time why you shouldn't mess with a skinny little brunette who likes to bake soufflés (or tries to; but no one quite had the heart to tell her to give up).

She was your perfectly ordinary extraordinary woman. Catching the Doctor was just the icing on her proverbial cake (she wasn't going to be trying her hand at those anytime soon after last year's Christmas _delight_).

The Doctor grinned at her across the table, almost as if he could read her thoughts. "Prison doesn't scare me now. I know I deserve it," he said with more confidence than he had. "I know even your kid apprentices think I deserve it. I do, I really do. I just want you to know, even now that it's too late, that I _never_ on my life thought it would turn out this way."

Clara had taken in Angie and Artie, brother and sister, after they were let out of juvenile detention for a small shoplifting stint, as her apprentices. Artie was still tagged with a GPS tracker, but Angie had served long enough to be rid of hers. She loved the job anyway, so she wouldn't run away if she could. No doubt Artie had taken a fancy to the eccentric Doctor. _Who wouldn't?_ She mentally slapped herself again. _No emotional attachments, just talk_. "Enough of that," Clara began sternly. "You have already been informed of your convictions. Do you wish to plead guilty or innocent?" He looked down at his shoes quite sadly, and shook his head. "Just give me the paper, I'll plead guilty and maybe... we can be done with this," he murmured. Angie stared at him doubtfully through the CCTV monitor. "That's bulldust," she whispered viciously. Artie shrugged.

"I don't know, he looks pretty sad..."

"You know what your weakness is? You _always_ take pity on the wrong ones. Honestly, just listen to Clara and detach yourself. Criminals are not your mates."

Artie pouted sorely at his older sister. "Alright!" he snapped. "I'm not five. But look at him, Angie. Look at what he's doing. He's led a life of crime and drug-induced mistakes that he'll probably regret for the rest of his days. Of course he's pleading guilty. Just look at his face."

Angie pursed her lips, but nodded. "I suppose you have a point. Everyone he's ever loved has either thrown themselves off a cliff, died or he's killed them for one reason or another. But we'll find out soon. Clara's a good interrogator." Artie nodded enthusiastically at that statement. Clara was the kind of woman who could make you confess nicking a lollipop from your aunt as a child.

* * *

**Oswin**

It was six months with John when he told her why he was called the Doctor. And really, it made too much sense. He was in the inner circle of an illegal drug ring that stretched across the UK. He wouldn't reveal how or even _why_ he got into it in the first place, but he did tell her this: they were called the Time Lords for the specific kind of LSD they sold. One pill and you're dreaming of a future (or a past) that you could never have. Sometimes their customers would take so many that those little trips blurred into their lives, a world of fantasy bleeding its sadly false wonder into the mundane reality of the every day. He had 'tested' the pills for them many times, rendering his imagination somewhat boundless. Every now and then he would slip up a little on a memory, trying to convince her that they'd been able to go back in time to change the future. Oswin loved him and all his silly habits too much to persuade him differently. So when he said he'd given up working with the Time Lords, she believed him.

* * *

**Clara**

Clara raised both her eyebrows in disbelief. "Really?" she asked incredulously. The Doctor grinned at her across the table, eyes full of a hope that shouldn't be there. "W... well," she stuttered, "I suppose we have to hear your story anyway. Start from the _very_ beginning." He continued to stare at her, totally enraptured by her iron manner, eyes twinkling away like a young star. "That's a _very_ good place to start," he replied smoothly, not breaking eye contact. Clara rolled her eyes and chose to ignore the childish _The Sound of Music_ reference.

"You see, it all started with an old friend of mine named Amelia Pond - girl with ginger hair and a name taken straight out of a fairy tale..."

* * *

**Oswin**

John shuffled excitedly in his position on the park bench next to her, and squeezed her shoulder in earnest. "So then I told him," he continued breathlessly, "to bugger right off! Just like that, eh?"

She grinned at him nervously. "Just like that," Oswin chirped, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at her boyfriend, too good-looking for his own good. He'd made up another story about travelling back in time in a – _a_ _blue 1960's police box_, of all things, really – and defeated some kind of evil villain of his imagination. She snuggled into his shoulder, ignoring the thoughts in her head. He loved her, and she loved him. And that was all that should matter. The birds in the tree overhead seemed to tweet delightfully in agreement. Actually, she didn't mind too much that half of what he told her was drug-induced nonsense. It was kind of endearing, really. It was what made him so unique in this world of uniformity and theatrics.

* * *

**Clara**

She nodded sharply, breaking her reverie of staring into his ancient green-gold eyes. "Continue," said she in barely a whisper.

"She was really beautiful, you know. All fiery, silky hair to match her persona; Scottish, too. Lovely accent. I love Scottish people. Anyway, we met when we were kids, and as we grew up, she started to notice a boy called Rory. Delightful fellow, really, quite the _nose_, he had. Like a real Roman! _Rory the Roman_, we called him. Wonderfully alliterative..."

Clara didn't have her usual confidence to tell him to cut to the chase, and let him continue babbling.

"_Anyway_, he started taking a fancy to her. Awkward, since I clearly was the one she was after. I don't know; we were fifteen. She kissed me and then I ran pretty far away from her. So my beautiful Amelia – Amy, as she had started to call herself at that point – finally asked out Rory, presumably for texting and scones, or whatever they did back then. Young people things, I suppose. Not that _I_ didn't do them too. But that year, Rory told me he wanted to try something. He was horribly nervous about it, so I agreed to look at whatever it was with him. _Oh dear_, you must be thinking. _Rory the Roman, afraid?_ His uncle, not much of a man really, so many transplants that there was hardly anything left of the original him. We called him a Patchwork Person. Well, I did, he just sort of laughed nervously. Back to the point - Uncle had given him two special little pills. He'd said that Amy would love him if he took them, but naturally, he was afraid. So we both took one together. He was _so _afraid of what his mother would think if she found out. Timid chap, our Rory."

He stopped to inhale sharply. The memories were painful for him. Clara placed her hand over his in a rare act of sympathy, encouraging him silently to continue. Angie frowned at the monitor. "What the bloomin' heck is that woman doing?" the young policewoman-in-training scowled at no one in particular. Artie shrugged in response. The Doctor opened his mouth to continue, but nothing came out, just an empty choking noise. He shut his mouth in surprise, frowning at himself in confusion. "I..." he whispered, tears pooling in his eyes, "I... Clara, I can't... I don't know _why_..."

Clara's heart broke for him in that moment, and before she knew it, she had crossed the half metre's distance between them and wrapped herself around his muscled torso in a quiet embrace.


	3. A Captured Rose (Mid-Bloom)

**_A/N: Just to give you a heads-up that I'm leaving subtle hints here and there to give you a small idea of where this is heading. Thank you UchihaHakura64, UrbanAuthor, book-thievery, NoLongerAGuest, HardcorePercabeth and The Linn for your reviews and PM's. I've got a name for ANoM fans: ANOMYMOUS! AHAHAHA YES. The dual perspectives aren't so much a change of perspectives as they are a change of focus._**

* * *

_Chapter Three: A Captured Rose (Mid-Bloom)_

_1940 words_

* * *

**Clara**

Clara's boss stormed in that moment, slamming the door behind him so hard that she and the Doctor sprang apart in fear. Senior Lieutenant Jackie Tyler was a hefty, intimidating woman with somewhat feminine features that promised beauty in a past time. Her thin blonde hair was ripped back into a harsh ponytail, so tight it pulled back all the hair on her head back like it was stuck in a vacuum cleaner. The deep-set lines around her eyes, mouth and forehead never used to be there. The entire police department thought she'd never grow old, fighting crime as the only woman in a high position. But then her daughter died at the hands of the Doctor, and she was never the same again.

"Get away from him, Clara! What the hell do you think you're doing? He's tricking you, don't you see?"

The shrieking tones in her boss' voice caused the young policewoman to shrink further back into the Doctor's arms, which had instinctively matched the curve of Clara's willowy thin waist. "For God's sake, Clara," Jackie spat, tearing her away from him. "We need to have a _talk_ in my office. About your commitment to your work."

The words, never mind the sound of Jackie's voice, was enough to send chills crawling like spiders down Clara's vertebrae.

* * *

**Oswin**

The petite brunette strutted across the sidewalk to greet her boyfriend with a big hug, jumping a little so she could reach around his neck. She beamed at him, the smile reaching like a sunray all the way up to her melted chocolate eyes, as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, so delicately, as if she were an infant. John grabbed her hand and started running towards the cemetery, where they could be found comparing names on gravestones and making up ghost stories (some of which John simply _insisted_ were true). They found themselves being 'shipped' as their classmates' 'OTP', much to John's amusement. (_They don't know a real OTP until they've watched 'Sherlock', _he'd told her). They laughed together, cried together, teased each other to no end and got stressed for their final exams in secondary school together. He was the Sweeney Todd to her Mrs Lovett. They were never king and queen of senior prom, but they didn't have to be. Rory and Amy were all they needed.

* * *

**Clara**

"Clara, I've seen you working so well for – what – three years now? Even in training you were always more diligent, more observant than the rest of them. What are you doing?"

The petite brunette found no way to respond; a rarity for her.

"I'm sure you know what he's... done... to the police forces of London," Jackie continued quietly, looking down at her beat-up _New Balance _runners and swallowing hard. Clara knew that she wasn't just talking about what the police had been through searching for the Doctor; she was talking about herself. He'd taken away her pride and joy, her _daughter_, when he'd promised to look after her. And _boy_, had Jackie fallen for it. It was no wonder she hadn't approved of Clara's sympathy. "I'm sorry, Jackie," Clara murmured with real remorse, kicking herself mentally.

"It won't happen again, I promise you. It was a stupid mistake."

"You'll be addressing me as Senior Lieutenant from now on, Officer."

That stung Clara worse than being fired on the spot.

Rose Tyler was a beautiful pink-and-yellow human with a special place in the Doctor's heart, more special and kind-hearted and pure _good_ than any other person the Doctor had met. Anyone could see how much she was to him. But no one was ever really sure why he strangled her to death when she was still so in love with him.

When Clara returned, head high with confidence she didn't have and authority she didn't feel she had enough to wield, Rose was the first name on her lips. "Go on," she urged the Doctor, "tell me about her." She chose not to sit, but paced the room like usual so he had to crane his neck to look at her when she moved out of sight. He licked his lips and clasped his hands together, searching for a way to begin. It was about a minute's waiting through heavy silence until he found one.

"Rose Tyler was the most beautiful human I'd ever met. That was saying a lot, considering I'd only just lost Oswin..."

Clara bit her lip. Those words were the sweetest she'd heard in her life, from the mouth of the internally darkest man she'd ever known.

"I'll talk about my Oswin later, I think."

She noted the possessive nature of his words and nodded at him to continue.

"Rose was... I'm not sure how to say this without sounding like a sentimental idiot, or maybe I am, but – she was the light in my darkness, truly. I'd been contemplating taking my life for months at that point, but there she was, smiling at me with a sideways glance, those bright blue eyes of hers so - inviting – how could I not find a reason to stay? We were in a pub, as I was freshly eighteen and also freshly bereaved. There I was, drowning my sorrows in numerous shots, just like my bastard father, and there she was. I remember how she swirled her cranberry juice, so absent-mindedly, so carefree. I wanted that more than anything. I wanted to be that carefree before I started my medical degree with no undergraduate course, just straight into university. But unsurprisingly, I never spoke to her. I made sure she didn't see me watching as she left a tip for the bartender and said she'd be back the next day with her boyfriend. Huh. I should've known."

Clara found herself fighting tears and nearly had to slap herself out of it. She was definitely not a crier, and he was definitely not a man she should find worth crying for.

"That night, I took a pill from Uncle, and I dreamed of her. I dreamed that boutique mannequins came to life and that we defeated them together. She was so beautiful, my Rose. Somehow, her boyfriend – Mickey, I think – found it within himself to dump her the next day. I didn't have to listen to know, it was all there in her big, sad eyes. So I sat next to her and ordered a cranberry juice. I actually hated the stuff, but hey! I was trying to woo a broken-hearted bombshell into being my rebound. Well... that's what it was meant to be."

He laughed mirthlessly, the gold disappearing from his eyes so quickly it was like they'd always been a murky ice green. Clara never understood how people's irises changed with emotion. _Maybe it has something to do with body chemicals_, she reasoned.

"We talked. A lot. Eventually I admitted that I actually hated cranberry juice and that I only did it to be her friend, but she didn't mind. I drove her home, but I didn't do anything further than wave her goodbye. I've done many things, Clara, but I'm not that sort of man. After two weeks, I asked her out, she said yes, and things were good. After two months, I started to feel lonely again. I'd fallen for her, in every sense of the term, but... I was missing something. I couldn't feel the love she declared that she adamantly had. Just thought she'd lied so we could be each other's rebounds and get on with it. There was only once that I ever saw real love in her eyes. I'd taken her to Amy and Rory's wedding and driven her home because she was just so bloody drunk. All I did was set her down on her bed, and she opened her eyes... I just... I can't tell you what it was like. Something about the way she looked at me was something I never wanted to forget. I wanted to capture that look forever so I'd never feel lonely again."

It was getting increasingly harder for Clara not to cry, to the point where she decided to sit down again and sit on her shaking hands. "Have you read _Porphyria's Lover_?" he asked suddenly, and she was taken aback. "Er... no?" she answered uncertainly. The Doctor smiled knowingly.

"It's a poem about a man who strangles the love of his life, Porphyria, just as she looks at him with love for the first time. It was only an affair, but a forbidden one. She was rich and he was poor. A noblewoman could never be allowed to love him in public. No one could ever know of her unfaithful tendencies, but the author of the poem needed her to love him. He doesn't really say why. So when she does finally look him in the eyes with real emotion... he strangles her. He captures the metaphorical flower mid-bloom forever so he can keep the proof of this fantasy of a life where they could love each other to no end. That's why I strangled her. So I could keep watching her lifeless eyes even as they started to yellow, and her body decay, because they were full of a love that I could never get back. And so Rose Tyler became the second love I lost through self-infliction."

* * *

**Oswin**

Living with John was a dream. Ordinarily she'd found moving house stressful, but with him to splatter her clothes with paint and bop her nose approvingly when she made soufflés... Oswin wouldn't have had it any other way. It was perfect - until the day she decided she _would_ have it another way. She did love him, a lot, but he lied to her. John said he hadn't taken acid since he left the Time Lords, but she knew he had. And he kept taking it. She heard him rummaging through the bathroom drawers a while past midnight most nights, and couldn't find it in herself to keep supporting a man who lied, cried and would probably die because of that addiction. He was like two separate people, slowly blurring into each other. John was loving, kind, and definitely a goofball. The Doctor was irritable, desolate and almost cruel. Yet Oswin could never break up with him - that just was not an option. He meant the world to her, because quite simply, he was the only one around to love her after her father died. So she found another way out, so to speak. John never really understood why, and even after the years flew, neither could the Doctor. And although she was gone, and he living, he felt more dead than she was.


	4. Blurred

**_A/N: Things are getting a bit interesting, aren't they? And to the Guest: the Rose grave is canon for a point I want to make in the story. But otherwise you have a good eye for detail :D More subtle hint drops and awkward conversations for you to return to later and smack yourself in the head. Everything said in this story is important, so pay attention ;) This is a very important chapter.  
_**

* * *

_Chapter Four: Blurred_

_1217 words_

* * *

**Clara**

Clara left the interrogation room briefly to use the bathroom when she overheard the Maitlands discussing something.

"Artie you _idiot_, were you listening to anything the man said? He killed his girlfriend so she could look at him with loving eyes or whatever. Try and tell me that's not psycho-"

"Yeah, but it's not just that. They know each other, I can see it."

"Um, of course _everyone_ knows him. He's a criminal, dumbo. We're the police. One would think that we know him."

"No, I mean... the way they held each other. Before Jackie came in. Clara isn't sympathetic for anyone. Hell, surely you remember how stern she was when she first took us in. Did you see the way his hand perfectly found the dip in her waist?"

"Artie... that sounded particularly creepy, even for you..."

"But _did you see it_?"

"Of course I did! Didn't you know that Clara was-"

"What's going on here?"

Both of their heads snapped up in fear at Clara's voice. "Uh, we just..." Artie began weakly, nudging his sister for support. She scowled at his incompetence in facing an angry Clara. "We were just discussing the Doctor's mental state," she finished smoothly, not even blinking. "At first," the younger woman added to herself. "So just to be clear, you think we should send him to a psych?" Clara asked almost nonchalantly, crossing her arms in that way the Maitlands found frightening.

"I – uh, yeah. Send him in."

"I do enjoy working with you, Angie."

"Mhmm."

Clara smiled, walked straight past the bathroom and back to the interrogation room.

"Hello Doctor. We're going to take a small... break, of sorts. You will be sent to our psychologist and evaluated on the spot. Come with me."

* * *

**Oswin**

She'd already made up her mind about it. Her father passed on from a heart attack just three years after her mum was murdered, so it wasn't like anyone was going to miss her. Except maybe John, but he'd get through it eventually. She wasn't going to listen to anyone in the state she was in. The night she received the news about her father she immediately drove to John's house and demanded drugs from him. He'd smiled, but hesitated to give her anything. Was she sure? There was nothing left to _not_ be sure about.

It was almost too easy to fall down the rabbit hole of addiction. Or maybe she had jumped. Either way, she spent the last of her days in a lucid state, consistently between being high and being so very low. John and her exchanged adventures, both swearing they were real. Realities blurred into hopes, hopes blurred into dreams, and soon enough, Oswin was taken to hospital on an overdose. John could hardly process what was happening, and afterwards all he could remember was that she became a fearsome robot-like creature, and that she somehow made soufflés with no eggs or milk. When she was discharged, his love was somewhat diminished, and he paced around their peaceful house from day into night, unable to comprehend what was happening to them.

After two weeks of drifting between confusion and general responsibilities neither of them could really carry out, Oswin drove out to the White Cliffs of Dover without him, taking three pills with her. Her phone rang at least fifty times, but all she heard was the consistent beeping and whirring of hospital machines around her. She had to get out. Oswin ran all the way to the edge of the cliff, her cloud where she imagined John was living, but the gale force winds seized her in a vice-like grip, and she fell. Or maybe she had jumped.

* * *

**Clara**

The Doctor opened his mouth in protest, and promptly shut it again when he saw that Clara was abandoning him with whoever the psych was whether he liked it or not. Silence hung like a blanket over the hallways it took to get there, only occasionally interrupted by someone's quiet request of coffee or a small grunt or understanding at a computer screen. They stopped at the door, where Clara rubbed her palms together somewhat anxiously, not bothering to conceal her concern. _Something's up_, the Doctor realised, _and it doesn't involve a regular assessment_.

"I – uh..." she began when her voice cracked. Clearing her throat, she tried again.

"I'll have to let you go here, the psych should be with you in just a moment."

The Doctor smiled at her almost gratefully, and took her trembling hand. "Hey," he said, voice barely reaching a whisper, "if it helps, you are the nicest policewoman I've ever met. Okay, maybe that wasn't the most impressive compliment, but nonetheless – you're a lovely woman, Clara."

Clara smiled back at him before looking down self-consciously. She should've been the _best _policewoman, not the nicest. It wasn't her job to be nice. But it wasn't her job to lie to him either. So she unlocked the door and left without a word.

The Doctor sat alone for what felt like millennia, whole body tensed on the soft dark blue chair facing a plastic cream chair, all the time staring at the ancient carpet and peeling beige paint on the walls that begged to be refreshed.

Meanwhile Clara paced uncomfortably in the empty interrogation room, free to be as awkward as she wanted to while the Maitlands left their post to enjoy their assigned lunch break. Could she really do this to the Doctor? After all those years of being taught to hate him, she was sucked into his dynamic – almost _electric_ – presence within minutes. He tore down walls that took years to build with just two words. Those words had touched her heart so deeply. _My Oswin_. Clara wondered how she could just leave him with some lady, how that would make him feel. Not that he _had_ to feel anything, of course. It was just an interrogation. She asked him questions, he answered. That was it. And that was all it could be. Clara mentally punched herself for thinking so whimsically. So unprofessionally. All those years of being tough, being dauntless, undone when some daft giraffe of a criminal caught her eye. She sighed. Maybe he was better off with the psychologist anyway.

The Doctor stomped his foot impatiently. He'd been waiting for nearly fifteen minutes. Where was the psych? Then, as if she had heard him, the psychologist walked through the door, humming casually as she set down her file and pen on the table next to the her chair. His jaw fell open at the sight of her.

It was his Oswin.


	5. It's Been A While

**_A/N: Introducing the 'Oswin and The Doctor' focus. Clara will still be featured, just in smaller parts. Language warning because I doubt anyone would keep their cool when someone comes back from the supposed dead. Think 'John sees Sherlock is the flipping waiter' in Sherlock Season 3. But otherwise not as intense as other chapters have been. LOL OSWIN IS BACK FROM THE DEAD BUT NOPE NOT INTENSE. Classic example of the kind of stories I write. Short-ish chapter, once again only in comparison to the other chapters. Also who doesn't have a drug problem in this story ayee. It's so common these days it hurts._**

* * *

_Chapter Five: It's Been A While (But I Still Feel The Same)_

_1176 words_

* * *

**Clara**

It was bound to happen, really. That day was as good as any. Oh come on – with a job like hers, sifting through bloodied and beaten corpses every other day, getting shot at by assorted criminals with assorted levels of aim – who wouldn't go 'round the proverbial bend eventually? So many memories, so many different cases that were all so similar in the end. Someone killed; someone died. Some regretted and others got paid. It was the way it all worked. The only factor that ever changed was the statistics. The number of bodies, heartbreaks, and occasionally dollars. Plus the odd suicide – the ones left behind always the same kind of inconsolable. The problem was that Clara used to have a _weeny little_ drug issue. They called it drug-induced psychosis. So many cases lost to her memory in internal suffering. Even after she'd gone clean for weeks, a hundred fires burned up her conscious, traumatising her day and night. She'd never tell you, not ever. Clara was always too strong to play the 'yes-I-am-a-woman-and-I-am-also-quite-scared-by-this' card. Everyone knew how many times that cross was thrown on her tiny shoulders. But it was true. Somehow the deception, the gore and the sheer _fright_ of it all became more than slightly too much for this small and feisty woman. As much as Clara hated to support the 'drug addictions are hereditary' condemnations, she couldn't fully deny that her father's issues had had no effect on her. After her mother died, it seemed like everything that used to matter slid down the slippery slope of a family depression and was swept under the carpet. Morals burned alongside their hearts. But that was something else she would never tell you. No one asked; they just knew. No one dared ask her why, or how, or where she got the drugs from. But it was the reason she was slapped onto the Doctor's case like a tacky souvenir magnet to the fridge door. That's the thing about being a minority police officer. They never ask.

* * *

**Oswin and The Doctor**

The Doctor sat motionless and supressed the urge to rub his eyes in disbelief. Clara had certainly left him there, and only Oswin would attempt to hum dubstep. His Oswin. He could only watch while she sat down and smirked at him in amusement. The sight of him trying desperately to process things was priceless. For once, he was not thirteen steps ahead of everyone in the room. Her voice cut the air cleanly with its enunciated, glass-clear tones.

"Are you gonna just sit there and gawp, Chin Boy, or are we gonna have something to work with today?"

He made small sounds at the back of his throat that sounded like words not yet birthed, just mere foetuses of what he was capable of creating with his usual eloquence. But of course Oswin was just the woman to break his composure. "Or should I say, _Doctor_?" she mocked lightly, crossing her right leg over her left smoothly. He shook himself out of it forcefully and tried to bring back some control to the situation, clearing his throat louder than he really needed to. "It's all a game of names, isn't it? I daresay you love playing it," he replied coolly. She frowned with what was close to real concern.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He grinned in that boyishly smug way of his.

"You're just Clara in disguise, aren't you?"

She shook her head in confusion. "Thought you'd use my old nickname to try and interrogate me further, eh?" he added somewhat angrily. "Well I'm _not falling for it_!"

Oswin inhaled sharply at the raised volume of his voice. "John," she began gently, and that was all it took. The police never found out his real name. Definitely not Clara.

"I'm sorry, I just – she was... Oswin, how could you... Why-?!"

She took his hand firmly, bridging the relatively small distance between their seats. The small brunette licked her lips anxiously, and when she spoke again, her voice was hushed. She spoke with the voice of secrets, weighed down by year after sorry year of regret.

"I think I might owe you an apology, John."

"Yeah, probably. _God_, Oswin – everyone thought you were dead! Christ, you gave me _years_ to grieve over you, rebounding from woman to woman to friend and you just... I don't even know anymore. Do you even understand how much pain I felt? I wanted to _kill myself_, and here you are, just popped out of the _fucking_ ground or something and-"

He cut himself off to wheeze for breath before she threw herself haplessly into his unknowingly waiting arms. "I'm here now," she whispered, running a hand over the back of his tense neck into his mess of floppy brown hair. "I'm here, and you don't have to answer any questions."

He looked up in surprise at that, tears still glinting in his eyes; a mockery of his forever militant façade. "You never used to swear that much," Oswin murmured sadly.

"Things have changed quite a lot since then."

His sharp undertones stung her deeply. "But I am glad that I have you back. Do I really get a break from interrogation now?" he added, voice remarkably softened.

"It's true," she replied softly, and his hand ghosted absently over her proud cheekbone as they subconsciously leaned closer, more out of old habit than the effect of the moment.

"I'm getting us out of here. God knows I've hated abusing my degree on these arrogant halfwits," she added with a chuckle. John frowned in concern.

"But that means..."

"Yep. I'm breaking us out of a police station. Wow, that sounds nowhere near as groovy as 'breaking out of prison' does."

Oswin rolled her eyes, a trademark reaction that John had missed so sorely. He rolled his eyes back at her with a little smile.

"I can supply all the groovy we'll need."

"That sounded better in your head, didn't it?"

"Yup. It's been a while."

"It certainly has... John."


	6. Honesty & Freedom

**_A/N: GUYS PLEASE I NEED A BIT OF SHERLOCK IN THIS. INTRODUCING 'THAT GUY FROM THE CONSULTING DETECTIVE'S AGENCY.' Will not be a crossover, just a fun feature that needs to happen. This is the point where you can probably start to figure some things out, if you look hard enough. Even though this is only the beginning lol. That or you'll get even more confused ^_^ Updating early because I'm at a youth camp for the next three days from tomorrow evening. Please review!_**

* * *

_Chapter Six: Honesty & Freedom  
_

_1054 words_

* * *

**Clara**

In the years of chasing the Doctor between cases, Clara swore off drugs entirely. The moment she stepped out of the academy as a graduate, she promised she would go clean. She swore to herself to cut off all contact with her addiction, deleting the various temporary numbers from her phone and even moved house from where she had been living with her father for so long. After he died it had been too empty, too sad to live in anymore. So move she did.

Clara spent the days going over agonisingly tiny details, retracing impossibilities as best she could – spending the nights pouring over the Doctor's past records and life achievements, tracking him down like a hunting dog would a young deer. Friends? Oh no, she didn't need those. The boys at work were hard enough to manage. While she would occasionally be obliged to make black eyeshadow look like it was seamlessly a part of her eye in order to be attractive to people at clubs, she preferred staying inside. Staying _alone_. It kept her heart and her mind safe, and that was the way she wanted it to be. The only exception would have to be that Benedict fellow from the consulting detective's agency she'd been forced to hire a few times... Quite a lot of times, actually. In any case, she doubted she would still be a Constable if it weren't for that sad sod of an incredibly intelligent man. Putting it precisely, she would have been demoted twice, fired for negligence, scolded for being careless with evidence (how was she meant to see that bloody banana skin?) and never have built a mind palace. Hers wasn't actually a palace like his – it was her gun wall at home. A mind-gun-wall. Her mind was another very distinctive thing about her. Clumsiness and teasing aside, she was a _very_ clever woman. Clara's wits stood out from the bunch like the big scar on her upper arm. And just like the scar, sometimes she felt all that sharpness was a detriment to her fragile image of beauty. The only difference was that no one ever knew about that scar or how it got there. And Ben made her feel okay with that.

Then that goddamn Doctor had to go ahead and wink at a CCTV camera after brutally murdering a heavily drugged couple, showing his entire face with no remorse, a grin lighting up his unique eyes. And those damned cheekbones. Well, she supposed she _had_ seen better, not even mentioning handsome young Ben. The number of times she thought she could get cut on those cheekbones by kissing him... Not that she'd ever do that. _Men are a distraction_, that was her mantra. _And so are women_. So she had somehow accidentally cut herself off from showing affection for the human race. Well she certainly had to act normal, so pretending to care about others and tease them accordingly became somewhat of a second nature to her, but she was still the same underneath. Empty and starving for her next trip. Little did she know - she was going to get one. Just not the kind of trip she was expecting.

* * *

**Oswin and The Doctor**

"Well, before we leave I guess we probably have some things to discuss. How are you, John?"

He laughed heartily at that. "How am I?" he asked incredulously, tiny eyebrows nearly disappearing into his heavily creased forehead. John paused to properly consider the question.

"I'm okay, actually. Keen to get out of here though."

"Let's go."

"Sorry, what?"

"You said you were keen to go!"

"I didn't think you meant right now!"

They frowned at each other for a moment before collapsing into hushed giggles.

"You know what, Oswin?"

"What?"

"I'm ready to go now."

"I thought you'd never ask."

It was honestly far too easy. All Oswin had to do was snatch the spare clothes and badge from Clara's locker (which John hacked in three seconds flat) and flirt their way out. She had the goofy station guard Matt's heart after a few minutes of smooth talking, and his keys after a hug. All John had to do was use simple social engineering. People who offer to open the door for you often pass through behind you; so that's exactly what he did, before punching poor Matt unconscious. _He's gonna feel that in the morning_, John thought uneasily. _So worth it, though_.

The chilly night air livened up their spirits, and the two young long-lost ex-druggie ex-lovers found themselves bounding down the streets of London, hands intertwined and their hearts light. Oswin couldn't keep the smile off her pretty face. He smiled at the sight of her smiling. "I actually haven't been outside in a long time," she admitted breathlessly with a giggle. John felt his heart swell for this woman, no longer an emotional teenager with too much beauty for her own good. The smile stayed stuck on his face like crackers and honey as he replied with the most honesty he'd shown in a long time.

"Neither have I."

* * *

**Clara**

For the most part, she felt guilty when Senior Constable Tyler yelled at the entire unit for letting the Doctor get away. She was responsible for letting him escape. It was all her fault. She needed to take accountability for it. Responsibility this, duty that. But inside, Clara was smiling. So what if she had wasted three years of hard work. She hadn't felt this free in a long time, and if anyone ever asked: she didn't regret anything in the slightest.


	7. Three Years Of Pain (Powder Stains)

**_A/N: Ladies and gentlemen, prepare your feelings. Crazy plot too. Idk man I just can't write very well right now, do forgive me. Bit of a cliffhanger too. I hope this reveals more of the depth in Oswin and John's relationship, and why she's the only person who doesn't call him the Doctor._**

* * *

_Chapter Seven: Three Years Of Pain (Powder Stains)  
_

_2221 words_

* * *

**Oswin and The Doctor**

Even after years of grief and trying to forget, their love had not diminished. It had been redirected, diluted by time and separation, but not so much as damaged by Oswin faking her death. John himself had had to fake a suicide or two in his time; and henceforth he decided he didn't need to know why. Just being with her in the flesh was enough to heal his tainted heart to a degree. After nearly half an hour of sitting on the grass of a nearby park, laughing the stars away, she frowned suddenly. "Oh my God, John," she began with concern.

"It's getting late. What are we doing? Where are we going to stay? What if-"

He cut her off with a kiss, tongues tangling messily in each other's mouths. Oswin happily sank into his familiar kiss without another word. When he pulled away from her softly, they were both smiling. "Listen to me, love," he whispered to her, "We'll be okay, I'll always make sure we're okay. I've got a place just two streets away from here, an old mate of mine left it to me when he... disappeared."

She smiled in gratitude and relief, but the tension in her forehead never dissipated as she pressed it to his. They closed their eyes for a moment; soaking in one another's scent and the feeling of their skin pressed together like two loving hands meeting for the first time in a long time.

Even as they sat there peacefully, memories of bad decisions and bad trips plagued her. A thousand lifetimes' worth of smiling, crying, falling and flying, tucked away neatly in her mind, just like the old clothes in the attic you can never bring yourself to throw out or donate. And she wondered why she was allowed to see her beloved John again. Her bumbling, bowtie-sporting, too-smart-for-his-own-good, _idiot_ John. But they weren't just John Smith and just Oswin Oswald against the world anymore. They were The Doctor and Oswin, ex-druggies and ex-yuppies – both had thrown away their dreams and potential in pursuit of something easier. Something lighter.

They could only dream of doing it over. Maybe that's why she still called him John. In the hope that, in keeping his name, they could keep those bad decisions and bad trips under mental lock and key. They could pretend those things never happened. Pretending to be just John Smith and just Oswin Oswald against the world.

In the walk through cold air and warm sensations down the streets to John's other house, Oswin received an impatient call from none other than Benedict Cumberbatch of the consulting detective's agency.

"Clara! I need you to-"

"Sorry, um, this is Oswin."

She looked at John nervously. It was _not_ the best time to be called by an attractive guy from an external department of the force.

"Oh, I see... Anyway, I need you to do something for me. Soon would be great. Actually, now. It could be the difference between life and death, Oswin!"

The small brunette slumped irritably, rolling her eyes at the overly melodramatic man at the end of the line.

"Fine," she growled, "but you owe me a chai latté and a soufflé. At the Reynold's Road cafe. With extra cinnamon."

"But Cla – Oswin... they're _so_ _expensi_ve-"

"Do you want this or not, Benny boy?"

"Yes..."

"What _do_ you want at this ungodly hour of the night?"

"Well, _Clara_ won't talk to me, so I need you to come over and find someone for us. One of our best – I mean, worst - criminals just escaped the station."

"Who?"

"He calls himself the Doctor, and we need him back _now_."

Oswin froze, her gaze trained solely on John's patient and smiling face. Silence fell across the line as she imagined that face smacking into the pavement as he was wrested away from her grasp, dragged away to the mercy of the law...

"Oswin?" Ben asked again, "you there, Oswin?"

"Y-yeah..." she stuttered weakly, knees threatening to buckle beneath her tiny weight. "Well, are you coming?" the man asked expectantly. Oswin looked back at John with a heavy feeling in her heart.

"Yeah, just give me fifteen minutes."

* * *

**Clara's POV**

I don't know if I should do it. Go and take him back to the station. Can I do that? Could I? _Will_ I? No, I won't. I really should. I was the one who let him run off with the psychologist Oswin. I don't know anymore. God knows what Ben will think of me... I haven't thought about him in a while, actually. Typical him, that is. Once you get him out of your head, he just sits and waves at you smugly from the corner of your mind.

Listen to me, I sound like a crazy person. Maybe that's just what I am.

Maybe. I don't know anymore.

* * *

**Oswin and The Doctor**

Silence fell between the two as they traversed the streets back to the station. An internal battle raged in Oswin's head as to whether or not she would tell the Doctor why they had to go back. But if she knew him at all, she already knew that he knew. Things would never be still for more than an hour when it involved them. Oswin sighed inwardly and tried to soak up all the love in John's gaze and touch while she could. Two things she would miss so very much. It hit her then that she didn't even have to go back to the station. She could keep running away her whole life, no one would care. And yet there she was, walking back without a second thought. When did she decide to do that? What was even wrong with her brain, that she hadn't even considered alternative options?

If only they'd been able to slip away like the characters in books can. If only no one had noticed. If only they'd gotten to his house and lived out their lives with complete disregard for real responsibilities, just like they used to. If only it could be that way.

He watched her through the corner of his eye. Oswin would never fail to completely floor him with her beauty. Her smile that fit so naturally into her facial expression, her eyes that lit up like chocolate melting from his flame – she would constantly make him second-guess himself just by breathing a little heavier when he came closer, even as the man who never so much as stuttered when his life was thrown in the balance. She was the Impossible Girl, the most tragically beautiful creation he had ever had the privilege to stumble across in a graveyard on a sad, stormy day.

The station loomed just ahead of them now, and perhaps it was just their imaginations that cast the deep purple shadows over the complex in a sinister fashion. Perhaps the station really was that sinister-looking. Regardless of how intimidating the architecture was, they found themselves at the crossroads again. Oswin made to continue, but he yanked her hand back a little harder than he needed to.

"Are we really doing this? What _are_ we actually doing? Tell me, Oswin – why, after only just getting out – why in God's name are you taking us back?"

Wincing at the entire situation, she licked her lips and spoke as honestly as she could.

"I don't know."

"I thought so."

His words stung her further, and she could feel the regret weighing down in her stomach, sloshing around like too much water.

"Who called you, anyway? Don't lie to me, I know it was a guy-"

"What are you trying to say?"

"Look, it's okay. You couldn't break up with me so you _faked your bloody suicide_ and left me, presumably for whoever _that_ was. And now you work together. Against people like me. I hope that helps you sleep at night."

Oswin slapped him hard across the face, the back of her hand connecting with his jawbone. He didn't even flinch, and remorse hit her when she thought of how many unexplained beatings he must have endured in the drug ring. Of all the things to get at her about. Her nightmares. How dare he talk about Ben like that. He had no idea what she had been through without him. He this, he that. She screamed at nothing and no one in particular. Things had gone way too fast. Too many illusions of running away together and forgetting what the word _law _even meant took their toll on the couple, especially when it came to actual decisions. Too many fantasies and hopes and dreams that didn't quite apply to real life.

It was always the same for Oswin. The same tortured girl, grieving through one death too many – the only death she'd grieved through. Her mother's. That was all it took to break her usually tenacious spirit. She felt so ashamed at her weakness.

John watched her with wary eyes in a look so full of maturity and calm it was almost frightening. Eyes that said, _I'm sorry, I didn't mean that_ and _I just want you to be okay for once_ at the same time. They would always be beautiful eyes. And she kissed him anyway, because that's what you do when you've reunited with your ex-boyfriend who thought you were dead for three years, got him out of an inevitable life sentence and spontaneously decided _nope, let's take him back!_ Ten out of ten, a _totally_ good idea, Oswin! She wanted nothing more than to smack herself in the face as she pulled away from him, the loss of contact almost painful for both of them. What else was she meant to do? What _were_ they doing, acting like it was all going to be peachy after three years of mucking themselves up. Oswin struggled to dump the blame all on Ben and his darned cute begging, just so he could get himself a real murderer, a proper psycho to play his little deduction games on. Since when did he have that power over her? _I'm probably over-thinking this_, she rationalised. _Just calm down. Of course they'd notice their long-awaited Doctor escaped with the psychologist. Now you have to deal with the consequences._

Questions bounced around Oswin's mind as they continued standing there awkwardly. Would she turn him in? Why did she even need to be there? Why was it so hard to process a simple request? What power did that stupid detective have over her? Would anyone find out she was... _No_, she decided firmly. _He was always a wonderful friend, and that's a secret that Ben will take to his grave._

It's almost funny how true that became.

* * *

**Ben's POV**

Call me what you like – the truth remains. I set her up. Of course I did. Didn't you think I'd notice the powder stains from slightly crushed pills on the sleeve of an old jacket? Her inability to stay focused for more than an hour? How quickly she changes her mind when someone charms her into it? How little she thinks before doing? How irresponsible. And what a waste, truly. She had a brilliant mind, for a woman of her financial status. Usually smart children are whisked away to private schools and fancy universities. Maybe she was home-schooled. Her social skills _were_ slightly beneath the bar for a cop. But she wasn't shy as such. No, not at all. Not _Clara_. Popped out of the ground at nineteen years old, they say. Suspicious, if you ask me. Still, she wasn't exactly an eyesore... Actually, she was beautiful. By most scientific standards, I mean. Her eyes and chin are in perfect ratio; her nose is a different story, but no matter. I quite like the way it turns up just a little.

Off-topic again, silly me. I need the Doctor. I need to see how well he can play my game. But maybe we should let them be. For now, of course - we'll always get him in the end. I want to see how fast the rats can run.

Smug with my little test and wondering if Oswin would actually bring the Doctor back to the station from wherever they, I stalked down the darkened hallway past the empty interrogation room and out to the front. It would be interesting to see the result of this experiment.

Then I heard a gunshot, and searing pain tore through my entire body before I hit the pavement.


	8. Mutual Surrender

**_A/N: Please review guys. I need to know what you think and want from this story. It's all coming together from here. I've made some of this chapter deliberately confusing, just so you know, my grammar and phrasing is not completely at fault ;)_**

* * *

_Chapter Eight: Mutual Surrender_

_1980 words_

* * *

**Oswin and The Doctor**

"Something's up, Oswin. You're going to tell me right now. I said earlier that I'd forgiven you, but – I lied. Honestly! Why would you – how? They said you were dead!"

"They never found my body, John-"

"I don't _care_ about the damn body, Oswin! I just wanted to know that you were alive... You could've given me _that_, at least. You knew how much I loved you."

Three years of uncertainty unfolding in the last three minutes became too much to bear, and all Oswin wanted to do was sleep peacefully, with no nightmares, just like she used to. Oh, how she ached for her mum's soufflé! How she craved life before drugs screwed her brain like maggots under a boot, before the police force, before Ellie died. There had been more than one occasion where she wished she had actually killed herself rather than faking it. And she was feeling it again. She inhaled deeply before bring herself to reply in serious tones.

"Look, I'm sorry about faking my bloody death. I needed a quick way to get away, and... I didn't want to be held accountable for the things I'd done to myself. Stupid teenage me; I thought I could just run away from everything. Please, just – understand me, John – you were so close to getting caught then, and yeah, I underestimated you. I think we both knew you were always smarter than the rest. Scarily so. But I never thought you'd be smart about killing people! I didn't think you'd go out on a Friday night and _kill_ people while your parents thought you were out partying somewhere with me, and..."

Oswin had to stop talking in order to gasp for air between sobs, tears pouring down her face. But she had to continue, absolutely had to. He had to know...

"...and you were always_ so fucking stoned_! I know I wasn't exactly any better, but I could've been, John. I really could've. We could've gotten married, and lived in that house. We wanted to. I just wanted you to love me like you said you did."

She was shrieking now, and John had to hold her in order to stop her wobbling to the floor.

"Everyone one I spoke to, all my friends, they didn't know of course, but – they all said there was _nothing_ wrong with wanting to be loved, so please tell me what I did wrong so next time I know not to do that ever-"

His arms snaked around her lightning-fast, like a cobra's strike, squeezing her tightly in his own special way that could always make her feel treasured.

"It was never you, Oswin. _Never_. It was my mess, and I should never have brought you into it. I should've just sucked it up and spoken to you about it; I guess I was just that scared back then. And high as a bloody star!"

He laughed, an out-of-place sound in the sombre environment.

"Seriously John. We just tried to escape a police station where everyone knows you. Of course they'd notice! What were we even thinking? Why can't we process things like we used to? Why does everything seem so... complicated when it's actually not? I've been clean for _years_, and – what about you? Are you even clean?"

Her words hit home. She was right, as always. It had been so embarrassingly immature to even attempt something like that. It was something only two teenagers madly in love would try. Just John Smith and Oswin Oswald against the world.

"Of course I'm clean," he answered uncertainly. "I was caught during a kill-and-collect."

The casual tone in his voice made her uneasy. She'd quite forgotten how many times he'd done that sort of thing.

"I – uh, what is that, John?"

"Oh. Sorry, I thought it'd be self-explanatory. Kill and collect the pay, clean and simple."

Oswin gritted her teeth bitterly in disapproval.

"It's not clean, and it's not goddamn _simple_. You've changed."

"What, and you haven't? I don't know what it is about you. We shouldn't love each other at all-"

"But we do."

"Christ, how much I love you. How do you do that to me, Oswin?"

A smile crept across her features like a sneaky insect as she chose to kiss him again instead of replying. They both felt, right there in that moment, they both _knew_ – that they would never leave each other, no matter who was a serial murderer and who was a serial liar. And they burst out laughing like lunatics. It didn't matter which way life chose to crumble around them, because they would be each other's go-to foundation and rock. They brought each other to the clouds and grounded each other at the same time. They humbled and praised one another. And, most importantly, they had always loved each other unconditionally.

The hairs on Oswin's neck started to prickle as she turned slowly to see Ben standing there with that little smirk on his face. She tapped John, who had already seen him, a frown set above his barely-there eyebrows. The following moments became somewhat of a blur for Oswin, that late at night; all she knew was that before she could react, John had pulled out a gun she didn't know he had on him and shot Ben clean through the forehead. And then her beloved consulting detective fell forwards onto the pavement, dead as her mother was. And she fainted.

She awoke to unfamiliar surroundings in familiar colours. A rich, deep blue covered the walls in a thin but opaque layer of high-quality, high-payoff paint (trust him to choose the most expensive variety of _anything_, just because he can. She'd quite forgotten how much monopolising the black market paid off), and all around her were rich purple furnishings which probably should clash with the wall colour but somehow didn't. Her head was pounding with a monstrous headache, and she thanked God that her – boyfriend, she supposed - knew to keep the curtains shut. Oswin stumbled towards the lavish white-and-steel kitchen, concentrating on just getting one foot in front of the other, to find the contents of the entire fridge consisted of frozen fish fingers and one-litre cartons of custard. It was definitely one of John's hidey-holes. The sun shone uncomfortably bright through the clean windows, making it unarguably the brightest room in the house. Why he'd picked clean colours for the kitchen alone, and deep colours everywhere else, she'd never know. Oswin jumped as he smirked from his position at the sink behind her. "Hungry?" he mused as his eyebrow rose almost mischievously. Nerves suddenly overcame the tiny woman, and she found herself having to swallow - somehow in a good way. She'd forgotten how he could do that to her.

"Y – yeah. You didn't tell me you were rich."

"You didn't tell me that you were alive," he shot back. John chuckled darkly at that, a majestic sound Oswin would never tire of hearing no matter the context. The words stung, but relief washed over her. He was joking about it now – that meant she was forgiven, surely?

"So what are we now?" she blurted before she could stop herself. "Are we together, or..."

"Together," he answered quickly in a firm tone.

"Good."

"Very good indeed, dear."

* * *

**Clara**

So Ben was dead, and the Doctor had shot him in the company of Oswin. And of course they both knew he could, and would. She was his other half. Yet the stupid girl had still fainted. Clara shook her head at this. Neither of them made any sense. Clara knew Oswin so well that they were basically the same person. And yet she had chosen to keep that particular relationship a secret from the rest of the force. Suddenly it became unclear whether she was referring to the Doctor and Oswin, or Oswin and herself. Everyone had done their fair share of smiling and denying.

The thought made her smile as the Doctor stepped into his living room with two mugs of steaming tea.

"Hello Doctor."

He looked up and dropped both mugs of tea, releasing a litany of swears that would make a sailor blush as they burned his bare feet.

"I'm good, thank you for asking. Now, Doctor - that's no way to greet an officer."

After staggering off to the kitchen for something to mop up the tea with, swearing under his breath the whole way there, he realised Oswin was gone.

"How did you get in here? Scratch that, I don't care - what have you done with her?" he spat, his words slurring slightly. It was hardly a question; more of an accusation. Clara only smiled placidly, as was in her job description, at his evident - and somewhat hazy - concern.

"Nothing."

"Then where is she? Why isn't she _still here_?!"

"She's run off, I suppose."

Clara jumped as he slammed his fists down on either side of her, armrests the only thing stopping him from hitting her.

"I swear, Clara, if you didn't look so much like her, I would..."

Her eyes watched him, all wide and full of chocolate innocence.

"I could've saved her, I could save her, why didn't I – s – save..."

He trailed off as his eyes glazed over and he collapsed, deadweight in her lap. That's when she noticed the faint powdery substance smeared desperately between the gaps in his stubble, and she cried for him, her stiff officer's façade falling with the tears down her heart-shaped face.

And she forgave him for giving her three years of hell and obituaries to fill.

* * *

**Oswin and The Doctor**

He awoke with his head still in her lap. "C...lara?" he murmured anxiously, opening his eyes blearily in that way she found so charming. "No," she whispered back, pressing a little kiss to his burning forehead.

"It's me, Oswin. It always has been me."

He nodded slowly, not really understanding any of what she was saying, and quickly went back to his drug-induced dreams where the laws of physics were devised by a madman. She considered searching for pills of her own, to see what it would be like to feel that way again, but found herself content with holding him and stroking his hair every so often.

She smiled at him as he smiled in his dreams, mumbling her name over and over again, the picture of bliss. Then he screamed, tumbling off her and onto the richly coloured Persian carpet, where he writhed painfully.

"_No_! No, Oswin, my Oswin, my Impossible Girl. Don't you dare leave me...!"

Tears of familiar panic began to stream down her face as she soothed him, trying to shake him awake like she had so many times before, but it was no use as he threw her off violently, his tears mixing with hers on the lush carpet. Her sobs were silenced as she started to quiver, knees tucked up right against her chest, arms wrapped around herself protectively. A wave of exhaustion hit her then, having not slept the night before, and she succumbed to the darkness before sprawling out beside him.


	9. Killing Time

**_A/N: Congratulations and a shout-out to UrbanAuthor, who is the only reader out of nearly 3000 of you to have guessed what I've been hinting at this entire time aha. I'm still pleased it took you this long though ^_^ Cute TTOTD dialogue reference and role reversal. Also – who else can't believe that all this happened in one night! The same night they ran away! Me and my hella concentrated plots, hehe. Updating heaps this week bc I'm going back to school on Monday, and will be atrociously occupied. Enjoy._**** It will be Clara and The Doctor from here on out, btw.**

* * *

_Chapter Nine: Killing Time_

_2188 words_

* * *

**Oswin and The Doctor**

They awoke in total silence at four in the afternoon. Neither chose to speak for a while, both content with staring into each other's eyes for no reason at all. And then curiousity got the better of him. "I had a dream, you know," he began, his voice husky from sleep and exhaustion. Oswin smiled, a beautiful smile that spoke of her deep appreciation of his presence.

"And what did you dream about, dear?"

"I dreamed you were Clara."

"Oh really? That's... quaint!"

She laughed, but something seemed off in her tone. "I know right..." he slurred, snuggling closer to her so their noses were touching.

"I dreamed that you were sitting in her clothes at the police station, writing up a psychoanalysis – and then she was in your clothes, emailing an autopsy report to your Senior. How... interesting that was."

Oswin sighed deeply and ran her fingers through his hair. The time had come to tell him. He did sort of have the biggest right to know, out of everyone she'd told. _But maybe not today_, she reasoned. It was still an excuse.

"Tell me more about your dream."

"Funny thing is, Oswin, is that I woke up to Clara. In this house. In her uniform. The doors and windows have been bolted since we arrived. How do you explain that, _sweetie_?"

The endearment dripped with poison, and she sensed the surface of his uncharted wrath. He already knew – he'd known since the day she walked into the main psych room in the police station.

"John – I – I _was_ going to tell you..."

"Yeah? Well maybe you could've said something in the interrogation room yesterday. You could've told me any time you wanted. You let me _believe_ that you weren't Clara at all – for the sake of you bloody interrogation, I suppose? I should've known," he spat, throwing himself away from her to a sitting position.

"I didn't know everything was locked," she admitted quietly. He laughed at her cruelly.

"For all your smarts, dear, you can be a serious _idiot_ sometimes."

"Oi!"

"Don't get angry with me. You have _no right whatsoever_ to be angry with me."

"You're right, okay, you're right! Is that what you want to hear? If you want to know so badly, I'll tell you. I was the one that burned Uncle's lab."

"Christ, Oswin-"

"I _bloody_ burned the whole thing, and I don't regret it, okay? We were all drowning in our addiction and we needed to get rid of everything for good! By then the police were far down your trail and you didn't even know!"

"So you thought by faking your suicide you could throw them off your trail and mine?"

"Of course. I didn't run away because I was scared of who you were becoming, although I really am. I ran because it would give us both a better life. That's why I had to become Clara and start all over again. To turn a new leaf. But the addiction never left," she replied sourly. "I suppose you know what I'm talking about."

He rubbed self-consciously at the powder remnants in his not-quite-a-beard as she continued.

"You _know_ it worked, though. My death, your disappearing act. Don't act like you're the saint here."

"You tricked me!"  
"I saved you!"

"You didn't even say goodbye!"

"I'm furious with you."  
"Well I am never even talking to you!"

And their lips crashed together like waves in a storm, rolling and falling into one another. Nothing else mattered. Not the lies, not the pain, not their addictions – just love. When they pulled away with a soft plopping sound, Oswin laughed quietly.

"We're making rather a habit of yelling and kissing."

"I like this habit."

"So do I, Chin Boy. So do I."

"God, I've missed that name."

They both smiled.

"So who are you now? Oswin Oswald or Clara Oswald?" he asked her, bringing his hand from her cheek down to her jaw where he cupped her face lovingly. She laughed again, that beautiful laugh he had always been in love with.

"You know, I thought I'd told you my middle name at least three times by now. Surely you remember?"

John cocked his head to the side in confusion.

"What? How is this relevant?"

"My middle name, you idiot. Not Clara Oswald or Oswin Oswald. I'm Clara Oswin Oswald."

"_What_? So just to be clear, you never had to forge documents, never did anything of that sort at all?"

"Nope."

"You are smarter than I give you credit for. And more efficient."

"That's why I'm the boss."

"Who said you're the boss?"

"I did. And I'm the boss."

She winked at him and laughed as he pretended to swoon at her feet.

"In all seriousness, I don't feel so bad anymore about getting caught. Because it was you, and of course you'd be the only one to catch me."

"Just like my mum used to say to me, it doesn't matter where you are, Doctor. I should call you that from now on. Or when you are, if you're off on a trip. I will always come and find you."

She smiled at him brightly. The Doctor didn't know whether to feel fuzzy or threatened. He decided he was feeling a strange mixture of both.

"So you just told everyone to call you Oswin on your psychologist days and Clara on your active duty days? Clever cog, you."

"That's right. What about you? How'd you become the Doctor and never get caught before me?"

He looked down at his vintage loafers in what was almost shame before walking to the bedroom. Clara felt baffled when he returned with a wad of what looked like credit card transactions. She saw the heading on one of them, and it hit her like a triple-decker bus. Her confused smile and her stomach dropped as he handed her the whole stack.

"No. No you didn't. Don't you bloody tell me these are real."

"Clara, I had to change..."

"No you didn't! Stop making this about me! You chose this!"

"I was getting too high of a profile."

"So you should have just dealt with it like anyone else would do. I'm not even mad with you running away – but reconstruction surgery? _Eleven_ of them?"

"I've made myself rather a lot of enemies."

"I'm not even going to ask how you could afford all that."

They both huffed in frustration. It had been one hell of a night.

"Tell me about them. Three premeditated murders, an armed robbery, large-scale trafficking of illegal drugs, serial murder, a mass murder, one case of grievous bodily harm, and a manslaughter charge. How... why? Why did you do all of them?"

"Where would you like me to start, love?"

"Murders, please. I do like a good murder. Then the GBH charge."

The couple grinned simultaneously. Concern and spite aside, they both found themselves drawn to dark things. In the same way a moth finds a flame alluring, they found 'bad things' fascinating – the only difference being that the Doctor went quite a bit further than they'd intended.

"Well, after Rose, I decided on changing my face and getting some nice clean glasses. Stopped working out too, so I became skinny as a stick. And then there was Amy. You remember Amy and Rory, right?"

Clara nodded vigorously. Her memories of Amy showed the Scottish redhead as a wonderfully energetic, friendly woman. They'd all been so close in high school.

"Well, we met again after you... did the thing. Rory had to cancel, but she came anyway. You know they got married? Anyway, I'm sure you also remember her little – er - _crush_. She didn't know it was actually me of course, but she was familiar with my _dazzling_ personality."

Clara swatted the back of his head playfully and muttered something along the lines of, "Egotistical prick."

"It was late, we were sad, and well... our respective partners had both sort of flipped us off for other things, although Rory did actually need to work, and you weren't exactly coming back. And she kissed me again, although she thought it was the first time. Then our good mate Rory decided to drop by after work..."

She buried her face in her hands. So many parts of their lives had fallen to the wayside. So many relationships and dreams, dashed on the rocks of time. "Did he beat your arse? Finding some man making out with your wife in the living room doesn't bring out the best in people." Clara whispered with concern. He laughed at that.

"That would've been so much better. Better than I deserved, Clara, for letting his wife do all that. So he just stood there in the doorway, not shocked or angry, just... so very, very sad. Amy being the feisty woman she is – I mean, was – leapt up and got on his back about him always working and never being there for her and what was she meant to do anymore. And he hit her."

The Doctor inhaled sharply at the memory of Rory's knuckles striking her proud cheekbone.

"Punched her in the face. I could always imagine Amy hitting someone, but Rory? Never. There I stood, all confused and raw emotions. We stormed out together, I think – but not before grabbing a meat cleaver. I'd never seen anyone look so befuddled or frightened, it was quite _funny_, really. I cracked his skull open and hacked his brains out in front of her. She didn't even blink as the tears fell down her porcelain face. And she begged me to let her kill herself. I said no. She slapped me and put her hand out for the blade, like I was going to give it to her or else. We both knew she couldn't do it, so eventually she gave up and asked me to do it for her. Kill her so she didn't have to chop herself up. I can't really explain why it was so easy. I just sort of... slashed at her neck, and then she was bleeding on the concrete next to Rory. Then I spotted the security camera."

He grinned, to which Clara shook her head knowingly.

"You knew, didn't you? You knew I'd be watching, but you didn't know it was me."

"Ding-dong, sweetheart."

"And what about River Song?"

"No, Donna first."

"Ha! To think I was the only woman in your life."

The joking vibes in her voice managed to completely mask how jealous and slightly hurt she was underneath.

"I met Donna when I first started my day job as a health and safety inspector for workplaces. It was very official, very stiff government work – exactly the kind of thing everyone knew I wouldn't be caught dead doing. So it was the obvious choice. I was Health, she was Safety, and considering my... tendencies and her mostly circumstantial obliviousness, it was all delightfully ironic. We were only ever friends, I should add."

Clara tried not to sigh with relief. It didn't work, and he cocked an eyebrow with amusement.

"Anyway... we became very close. She was a delightful lady, about ten years or so older than us now, and we spent most of our time together travelling to odd places and pretending everyone else were aliens. Then my dear Donna found out about the Time Lords, and why they called me the Doctor. She was so disappointed. Her disappointment made me angry, and I was so under the influence at the time that my anger knew no bounds. I bashed her with a brick until she developed amnesia."

"Fucking hell, Doctor. Okay..."

Suddenly Clara felt sick to her stomach. She knew what he'd done on paper, but hearing him say it, confidently, almost proud of himself – that was horrifying. She was in love with a madman. Maybe she was a bit mad too. Then she smiled at the book reference that brought to mind.

_We're all a bit mad here. _


	10. The Sidewalk Family

**_A/N: I'm starting to portray the Doctor as a true, self-righteous psychopath here, which is the main AU feature of the story. As well as changing the basic physical elements of Doctor Who, I'm changing his character to suit the vision I have for him as a very, very old man who's on the road to cynicism and destruction as a result of being overzealous. Clara's gone a bit loopy too, but that's what you get. Each psychopath to themselves, I suppose. Sorry for making you all wait so long! School started, and I'd rather give you quality chapters spaced apart than heaps of crap chapters, you feel me? Small filler-ish chapter, good to give you all a break. Easy reading and whatnot. Well, in comparison to the rest of the story LOL._**

* * *

_Chapter Ten: The Sidewalk Family_

_1334 words_

* * *

**Clara and The Doctor**

And isn't that the truest thing there ever was. Madness surrounds us everywhere we go – in happy screaming children on sugar highs, in jealous and heartbroken teenagers that would do anything for _that_ boy – in absolutely anyone at all.

But of course she'd always go back to him in the end. It would take weeks, or months, or years – she would always, _always_ return to her Doctor and save him from himself or others.

So she would just have to get used to it. Living with a psychopath means never revealing how much they scare you.

"Tell me about the mass murder. That sounds interesting," she spoke as casually as she could, shaking internally. He smiled fondly at the memory.

"We were in a planetarium where they'd recreated the surface of Mars. So many people. So very many people were there, crowding the place, defacing it with the debris of their children. Hang on, that was after I killed them... Um, anyway – you should have seen them, Clara. Dribbling from the mouth, lips chapped from the dry winter air – like monsters. Aliens, if you will. They needed to die. I felt only a small portion of remorse after hacking the first baby apart with my meat cleaver."

She busied herself making tea for them both as a means to mask her deep concern. "Anything else you want me to tell you?" he enquired cheerfully. Clara immediately shook her head. "No, no, no, I'm quite alright thank you," she replied briskly.

They were silent for a moment after she handed him the other mug, which he slurped at an awkwardly high volume. "I'm bored," the Doctor stated plainly.

She raised an eyebrow at that. "What should we do?" Clara mused in reply.

"Let's go live out _Sherlock_, you can be my Mary and be all secret agent-y."

"Okay, Chin Boy."

"Okay, Soufflé Girl."

"We are slaying 'em with the references today."

"Yes we are, dear. We definitely are. Thank you for giving me a little infinity though our days are numbered."

"That book made me cry. We will not speak of that book."

After no more than five minutes they were bored again after having combed the newspapers for something remotely interesting. "You know," began the Doctor, "_we_ could be the ones to make the news more... alluring."

Clara laughed at that. "What, are we gonna go kill people now?" she joked. His face looked excited and business-like at the same time. She would never know how he did that all in one look. His eyes remained set in that meaningful stare, like she was that one person at the party who didn't get the joke.

"Oh, you're serious..."

"Dead serious, my love."

He winked and she punched him playfully in the arm. "You can't joke about that!" she mock-scolded. They burst into laughter, but Clara stopped abruptly when he shimmied his hand into his skinny jeans pocket for something, pulling out two joints. Her mouth fell open.

"But – but – I only just..."

"Shh..." he soothed, "we'll light it together. Just like we used to. I want to dream of you tonight."

Clara fell into the familiar trap once more as his face lit up in that hopeful smile that only served to raise his non-existent eyebrows and make his prominent chin look even bigger. But she still loved him anyway. Of course she did. And so Clara broke the promise she made to her father all those years ago.

They laid there until the early hours of the morning, laughing at and with each other, words bumping and rolling together like bumper cars at a children's carnival. When the effects started to wear off, they realised the extent of their hunger and enthusiastically raided the nearby twenty-four hours grocery store, buying nearly everything except the building. After their atypical hunger had been well satiated, they set out to the streets of downtown London to see what they could do about their boredom.

Something about the Doctor brought out every psychotic thought, every dark whisper that had lived in her mind. He showed her the hidden side of herself, something denied and pushed away for so long. Clara needed to be relieved of her pre-psychosis tension. The people swarmed around them, some staggering drunkenly, some walking briskly and upright back to their homes for whatever reason they had to stay out so late. They grinned at each other when they saw two young children sitting with their sleeping father by the sidewalk, shaking empty coin tins. The perfect choices. It was just so easy for them to sweep the young teens away. So easy.

"Hello loves! Might I ask why you're out here instead of inside a nice house? Somewhere warmer?" Clara chirped with astonishing enthusiasm. The Doctor withheld a smirk and smiled at the children, who were too stunned to respond. The father did not stir, the beer bottle in his hand clutched tightly. _Poor soul_, Clara thought to herself. _It would be rude if we didn't_. It was time for the Doctor to let Clara do the bad things. But they were good things, in their eyes. They were being merciful by removing the children's father from his earth-bound misery. All it took was a look between them, and the plan was birthed. The Doctor guided the children to the local fish and chip shop for a quick dinner while Clara contemplated the humble kitchen knife in the pocket of her crimson trench coat, turning it over and over in her dental glove-covered hand. The man still slept even as her knife slipped between his ribs, almost like an accidental fall down the bus aisle. This was no accident. His eyes snapped open in confusion, the breaths wheezing in and out of him until Clara stabbed him three more times with vigour she had not known, and they stopped. The alcoholic homeless man and father of the two children was dead, slain at her hands. And she felt _alive_. The blood from the wound kept pulsing, dark and thick and _beautiful_, all over the pavement by her feet. She wiped the knife off and placed it in his hand, careful not to leave fingerprints. It would look like suicide.

It took about fifteen minutes and the Doctor returning alone for her to figure out the children were dead now, too. He grinned at the site of her, and she ran to his waiting arms desperately, seeking some sort of assurance that yes, she had just killed someone. The Doctor pressed feathery kisses to her forehead, proud of his Clara for slaying the man so heartlessly. The arterial blood had congealed by the time a woman across the road screamed and dialled the police, but by then the Doctor had removed his bowtie and left it there with his 'business' card, and they were long gone into the night.

Needless to say, the police department weren't very happy.


End file.
